Essence of Canadian
by slashburd
Summary: Every day you wake up, what do you crave the most? And if you get it, is that a good thing? Oneshot. M/M slash w/moderate smut, please don't read if Slash offends, you have been warned. First ever Matticho fic - I hear they're addictive!


_Vaguely inspired by and dedicated to Dark Kaneanite's Choco Milk - my mind works in mysterious ways!_

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The morning after the night before was never a pleasant one. Chris laid sprawled out on the bed, half wearing last night's clothes, hair scruffed up like a dead dog and his eyes barely able to peel open. On trying to open his mouth there was nothing but Saharan dryness preventing even the quietest sound escaping between his lips. He felt like unholy hell.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd sworn not to do this any more. Chris often protested to his friends that he was getting too old for the late nights fuelled by copious amounts of neat Grey Goose. Ideally he'd much prefer to cook a meal, enjoying good company and decent wine followed by some much needed relaxation time. It would be fair to say that his time was a plentiful commodity now that the love of his life preferred to pass their time with others rather than Chris.

Drinking to forget had been something he'd honed to a fine art during his married life, never feeling quite at home until he'd had just enough to take the edge off the atmosphere of his picture postcard home. Problem was now it was taking a lot more to get wasted enough to feel human. Wistfully he remembered when he liked nothing more to be able to go out with the gang, get buzzed and get crazy. He'd always had a reputation as a wildchild in the bar but never in the bedroom, steering clear of groupies and ringrats wherever possible. Sure he copped some heat from the other guys about it but he had no need for notches, after all he was Chris Jericho and could have who he wanted. Allegedly.

What so few people had ever known is that his true relationship awaited him every time he walked into a booked hotel or through an arena door. Through the haze of his hangover he stared at the ceiling, the ache in his head more than adequately mirrored by the one in his heart. Chris recalled his lover's long dark hair sliding between his fingers, the thought every bit as arousing as the sensation that accompanied their first kiss. That kiss brought an end to months of tension and posturing between them, both having been too scared to make the first move when they sensed that their encounter might actually mean something more than just sex.

A deep breath pulled a familiar scent into his senses, a warm spicy smell that had stored itself in his memory banks ever since that first night. It reminded him of how he'd pressed his heaving chest onto that strong back and buried his face into the mane of charcoal curls that tumbled down across tanned shoulderblades. He recalled the random adornment of fresh bite marks he'd left behind, marking the man as his own. It had been a long time since that encounter and although the pattern of the passion had changed absolutely the depth of it had increased day on day, year on year. Or at least it had from where Chris stood.

Forcing his unwilling torso onto it's side he realised that he was alone. The familiar form that he loved to feel curled around him at night wasn't there and that whole side of the bed lay untouched. Pangs of loneliness bit hard into his chest and he slowly brought himself up to balance on the edge of the bed, hoping somehow that would ease them. In fairness he knew that it wasn't a true physical pain and that nothing less than getting up, getting on with it and facing the world would cure what he was feeling.

The curtains were at best haphazardly drawn, probably more open than closed if Chris was honest. He had no recollection of arriving in his room last night, let alone the finer details of his domestic routine before his eventual collapse. The light flooded in and broke the gloom but not his mood. Screwing his eyes shut tight his mind was flooded with the the image of glistening skin before him, pressed hard against his own. It wasn't until he reached out to touch it that the daydream shattered and he curled his disappointed fingers into a fist, hating not knowing whether it was a dream or a memory.

Slowly he rose to his bare feet, the weight of his headache giving him an anti-evolutionary stoop as he shuffled towards the open bedroom door. His only thought was for coffee; strong, sweet and healing black gold. Exiting onto the landing he headed towards the top of the stairs only to be distracted by a low rumble of noise coming from the room directly across from his own. Pacing carefully so as not to make his presence known Chris was curious as to what was making the racket that sounded like a stampede of angry water buffalo to his dehydrated brain cells.

The door of the room was slightly ajar and he peered around it, thankfully still unable to speak as his eyes were assaulted by the source of the noise. Chris was surprised that the sound of his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces didn't drown it all out there and then. Those fondly-remembered dampened ringlets were being wound around the long slender fingers of another. Fingers that used the resulting leverage to draw open the throat that vibrated with stifled cries of arousal. The frantic air gulping that caused the prominent Adam's Apple to undulate seemed to be being driven by the repeated pounding of sweat slicked hips against ample buttocks that ground back wantonly.

Biting his lip to hold back the tears Chris didn't quite register at first who it was that was possessing the man whose anatomy he knew so well. It was soon clear that a fellow countryman had showed little loyalty last night and had stepped up to the plate in Chris' absence. He knew the feeling of being inside that sweet flesh so well that he guiltily let the sensation wash over him, trembling slightly as regret and rage prickled at the hairs at the back of his neck.

He felt dirty standing there like a peeping tom, taking in sights that were clearly not intended for his eyes, listening to the slap of skin on skin that drew the moans and mewls that sounded so familiar yet so foreign. Here was the man he loved and desired more than anything else in the world on his hands and knees being slammed like a slut and making no secret of what it was doing to him.

For a second Chris closed his eyes and concentrated intently, casting his mind back to the last time he'd had the privilege of wrapping his fingers tenderly around those fleshy hips and rocking against them to bring oblivion a step closer. So many times reaching the edge and retreating before the begging and pleading got too much and he yielded to the desperately panted cries for release.

Glancing back into the room the treatment his lover was receiving looked different to their lovemaking, certainly faster and more unbridled than Chris had ever dared to be. He preferred to savour the moment like the last note of a perfect song or the breaking of a golden sunset over the Pembina mountains. In their sessions he'd sensed when they were getting close and would pull the handfuls of slack curls aside and place vampiric kisses all over the exposed skin, muttering expletives and professing the depth of his love until they both erupted. Today however the order of the day seemed to be just getting it over and done with; the archetypal primal fuck.

Chris turned away before he risked witnessing and enduring the embarrassment of the crescendo he found himself so deeply jealous of. He ambled down the stairs as the obscene echoes broke the crushing silence of the house and rang in ears that seemed more determined than ever to hear. Padding through to the kitchen he set the kettle on to boil and grabbed some kitchen paper to dab at his eyes, the tears now rolling freely off the bumps of his cheeks and onto the marble worktop. If only it was as simple as adultery and there was something to try and salvage. If only he could race upstairs and tear Christian away, throw him to the ground and berate him for his loveless violation of the man Chris loved every shred of his being. If only Matt were still his to cherish and worship.

No reasons had been given, no excuses had been offered. Their house, their former home, now divided territorially until alternatives could be found. The whistle of the kettle screamed throughout the kitchen, echoing back at him from every polished tile. Chris was grateful that it masked the noises from above and for a moment stopped him thinking of everything that had led them to today. Chris shocked himself at the way he slammed the mug down, surprised and grateful that it hadn't broken clean in two. Adding the coffee and freshly boiled water he took a lungful of the dark scent that filled the air, reminiscent of so many mornings when he'd made breakfast in bed for Matt. Orange juice, muffins and French toast caked in as much cinnamon as would stick to it, just they way they liked it.

Today though there was no hunger other than that which tormented his soul and drove the spiral he was stuck in. Reaching into the cupboard above the sink he reached for a glass bottle that contained his guiltiest pleasure of all. This was the dirty little secret that was breaking his heart every single day of his emptying life. Slugging a healthy measure of the liquid into the cup he brought the bottle of to his face and held the cool soothing vessel against his temple, taking a moment to scowl at the irony of the label.

Canadian Supreme.

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**A/N: I was just having a bit of a crazy ass moment with this – a bit different for me and sadder than I kinda hoped it would be. All reads and reviews appreciated :) p.s. the Pembina mountains are near Winnipeg and Canadian Supreme is a whisky :)  
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